“Papa is dead,” my dad uttered on one very dark night. He drove directly down the street in a rush just to tell me this. When I went into my room to sleep, I ended up staring at the ceiling, thinking about the hands that played ball with me, now cold and stiff.
I can just remember him playing with me in my grandparents apartment like it was last night. The maracas that he shook with me, now laying still by the window. The two musical sticks that he bangs into each other, which are now with him and the maracas. When I was playing with him he was always smiling and laughing with me.
This all happened until one devastating and he went to sleep one night in the hospital and ended up never waking up again. My dad told me that he kept trying and trying to wake him up with the other hospital attendants. My dad told me that he was opening Papa’s eyes saying “Papa, are you awake” and “Papa we miss you” and “Papa wake up”. Papa does not respond. Papa is still not awake. Papa, is asleep, asleep, actually asleep. My great grandfather had lived all the way from 1921 2008.